


To Catch a Bard

by aravenwood



Series: Whumptober 2020 [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Collars, Gen, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26778124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aravenwood/pseuds/aravenwood
Summary: In which Jaskier's father takes back his son and Geralt is having none of it.A series of three interconnected drabbles for the following prompts included in this year's Whumptober - collars, manhandled and rescue.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Whumptober 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947343
Comments: 14
Kudos: 170
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	To Catch a Bard

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Another fic for the Whumptober in which I am, like all of my Witcher fics, slightly mean Jaskier. Only a little bit though.
> 
> Please enjoy!

The collar is tight around his neck, thick and unwieldy and pressing tightly against the base of his throat. He can barely breathe around it, every breath a conscious effort, and he’s trying and failing not to panic. This has to be a joke; some cruel trick to leave him feeling scared and vulnerable. 

Surely no one is cruel enough to put a collar around another man’s neck. 

Jaskier has witnessed cruelty in his time, and he has experienced it first hand so often that undisturbed sleep is classed as a luxury. But the moment a man enters, attaches a rope to a ring on the back of the collar and forcibly drags him from his prison cell will forever be in his mind as the single most inhumane cruelty he has ever been victim to. 

He barely gets his feet beneath him but he fights to get himself upright, so painfully aware that if he falters his captor will not, and that he’ll be dragged along the floor by the rope. That’s a thought so sickening that he doesn’t hesitate before breaking into a stumbling jog to keep up with the long strides.

As they round a corner and reach a well-lit corridor, they’re joined by several other men, all dressed in armour and with swords hanging at their hips. Jaskier turns his head to examine one man, and his eyes land on a colourful coat of arms on the breastplate. His stomach plummets and the fight in him returns. No, this can’t be happening. It can’t be, this can’t be real it has to be a dream, has to be a cruel nightmare that he will wake from, that he has to wake from. He throws his head back and forces his feet to still despite their determination to keep going and keep him alive. 

“I’m not going back,” he says, weakly at first but then repeating it over and over with his voice rising with every repetition. As panic builds and his captors move in to silence him, he thrashes against the arms which appear from behind to wrap around his chest. He throws his head back again, and this time pain explodes in the back of his head and he feels something crack beneath the force. The soldier behind him swears and the arms around him loosen and disappear. One down, he counts silently as the others move in.

It only takes two men to bring him down; a punch to the stomach has him doubling over, the air knocked from his lungs, and one kick to the back of his knees forces his knees to buckle The man with the rope begins to walk again, and Jaskier can’t get his feet under him quickly enough. His knees slide along the slick marble floor, aching from his fall.

But worse than the aching, worse than the realisation that he can’t escape while he’s like this, is the choking sensation that comes with being dragged. He can’t breathe, can’t take in a single breath, and his panic spirals into desperate struggles which do nothing and only make him more aware of the lack of air.

He suffocates for what feels like an age until hands grab each of his arms and they drag his barely conscious body upright. And then, finally, the collar loosens just enough that he can draw in a single shallow breath of air. He’s so relieved that his eyes flutter shut and he loses track of what’s going on around him. 

Until he’s thrown to the floor, and a familiar voice greets him.

“Julian my boy, welcome home.”

Jaskier opens his eyes and forces his head upwards, forces his eyes to meet his father’s eyes.

Lord Pankratz smirks as he looks down at his son. “I knew they’d find you eventually. And this time…this time you won’t escape again.”

\--

Jaskier forces his aching body to his feet. He ignores the protests from his knees, feet and shoulders, tenses his muscles as he threatens to overbalance when his legs wobble from his weight. After so long away, after finally learning what freedom was really like and being able to embrace his real self , he won’t let his father believe for even a moment that he’s just a scared little boy like he once was. No, this time he won’t be so easily frightened. This time, he’ll stand his ground.

As much as he can when he has a fucking collar around his neck.

His father’s lips curl into a cold smirk as he looks Jaskier up and down, eyes lingering on his calloused hands and then on the thick collar around his neck. “We have missed you, your mother and I. Your mother especially, you should have seen the state you put her in when she found your bed empty. The poor woman, she cried for days.”

Despite the anxiety building in his chest, Jaskier stifles a laugh. His mother, crying over his absence? She’d hated him for his entire life, hated his eyes, his voice, his taste for the arts. He’d been born months after the death of his oldest brother and she’d despised him ever since, viewing his mere existence as a cruel joke designed to taunt her in her grief. She was a cold mother to him, hardly fitting of the title. 

Of course, they have to keep up the pretence that they were once a loving family, for the sake of the guards lining the room. 

His father rises from his chair and strolls across the room, coming to a stop a few feet from his son. From this close, the disdain in his eyes is clear and Jaskier can’t help but feel like he’s a child all over again, so afraid of that look that he’ll do anything - - to get rid of it. He knows the pain which comes with that look, remembers it so clearly even now that he swears he can feel the sting on his cheek. The scars on his back burn like they’re new.

“Leave us,” his father snaps to the guards, and none of them just protest or even give Jaskier a second glance on their way out the door. 

“Father…” Jaskier starts when the door swings closed. 

He doesn’t get a chance to finish before he’s backhanded so hard that he collapses to the floor, curled up and biting his lip to hold back the cries of pain. “Do you know the shame you have brought on this family?” Lord Pankratz roars. “You may as well be a beggar! Do you know how hard I have worked, how hard you have worked to undo what you have done to this family? We are lords and we are soldiers, we do not prance around !”

Jaskier has heard this speech before, so many times when he was a boy, but this time it’s so much worse because he didn’t just get caught humming to himself during his lessons - he actually escaped, and lived his dream. An offence punishable by death in this family.

And to be frank, he’s sick of it. “Yeah that’s right, I’m a musician! And do you know something else? I’m a bard. The great Jaskier, bard to Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf. I’ve performed in courts, for Queen Calanthe herself. I’m known all over, and in fact, I’ve made more of an impact on the Continent than you ever could have with your swords and your fucking title-!”

He’s cut off, this time by a hand in his hair dragging his head so far back that it hurts. “How dare you speak to me like that! You will be silent or I’ll have the guards cut your fucking tongue out! And then what will you be? What is a bard without his voice? A fucking disgrace!” Lord Pankratz snarls, his face mere inches from Jaskier’s. His breath is sour with the stench of alcohol, something much stronger than the ale Jaskier has grown so used to in the years he’s been away.

“You’re just jealous because I have more connections than you could ever have. Has Queen Calanthe even spoken to you in courts? I’ll guess not because if she did then she would know that you’re nothing but a coward!” Jaskier snarls before he can stop himself. There’s a voice in the back of his head telling him to stop if he wants to live but he’s just so and so afraid because he’s still hyperaware of the collar around his throat and what it means, the symbol of ownership it provides. 

Suddenly, there’s hands around his throat just above the collar, and they’re squeezing, and his father is so red in the face that it blends in with Jaskier’s own scarlet tunic. He’s squeezing and Jaskier can’t breathe, and he tries to thrash but his father has always been a much stronger man.

His vision is just starting to dull when his father suddenly lets go and throws him to the floor. Through the ringing in his ears he hears the guards being called back in, and his father telling the guards to “lock him in the cellar and throw away the key”. He wants to fight, wants to panic but he’s just so sore and so tired, can’t even bring himself to struggle as he’s dragged from the room. 

His last sight before the door slams shut is his father grinning at him, looking more menacing and victorious than he ever has. Because he knows that he’s won, that no one can find Jaskier here. Geralt doesn’t even know Jaskier’s real name, how is he supposed to find him here?

Not even a witcher can save him from the wrath of his father.

\--

There are very few humans Geralt hates more than nobles. They’re worse than the tavern frequenters who hire him for tiny little problems. Worse than the bandits who try and fail to rob him of his earnings. He does his best to avoid them when he can, unless he has absolutely no other option if he wants enough gold to survive. 

And yet, here he is sneaking into a lord’s manor in the middle of the night. Oh how times have changed.

It was easy enough to find out where to go, at least. He’d entered a tavern the night before and heard several men discussing how the great bard Jaskier (as Jaskier liked to address himself as) had been taken by Lord Pankratz’s soldiers. After hearing that, it was only a matter of finding out where Lord Pankratz stayed. Easy, really. Almost too easy.

Even breaking in feels too simple. The guards are few and far between, and one is even polite enough to offer up information on where Jaskier is being held - with some light encouragement from the sword at his throat. It’s all so simple. Right up until he asks about a key.

“There is no key,” the guard insists, growing increasingly flustered as Geralt increases the pressure on his throat. His eyes are wide and frightened, his inexperience shining through. This Lord Pankratz is clearly not a powerful lord, the guards consisting of any men he can find who are able to hold a sword.

The inexperience does nothing to lessen Geralt’s irritation. “Don’t lie to me. Tell me where the key is and I won’t cut your throat.”

“Please!” the guard cries, and Geralt glances around quickly to ensure they haven’t attracted any unwanted attention. “I swear, Lord Pankratz told us to destroy the key! He didn’t want anyone going in and out to see his son.”

Son? Geralt narrows his eyes. Jaskier had never mentioned that he was a noble - or maybe he had, he spoke a lot and Geralt rarely listened. It sort of makes sense, though - the love of fancy clothing, the delicate way with which he eats his food (when he isn’t starving, that is) and his general demeanour, it all makes sense now.

“How long has he been here? The boy?” he asks the guard.

“Um, about four days.”

And with that, Geralt removes the sword from the guard’s throat and swings the pummel at his temple. The man drops like a sack of potatoes.

He finds the cellar door to the right of the kitchen. He tugs experimentally on the handle and is unsurprised to find it locked. Well, he thinks, it was worth a try, right before he lifts one heavily booted foot and slams it into the wooden door. It bursts open under the force and he hears a muffled yelp from downstairs. He doesn’t hesitate before hurrying down them, anxious about the state he’ll find Jaskier in.

It’s just as bad as he thinks. Jaskier is curled on his side in the middle of the floor, half-asleep. His skin is pale and his lips dry and cracked, and he looks at Geralt like he’s not quite sure that he’s real. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says quietly, and falls to one knee at the bard’s side. He reaches out and shakes one shoulder. “Wake up, we’re leaving.”

Jaskier squints at him with eyes that don’t quite seem to focus. “I…what are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here,” he mumbles.

“That doesn’t matter. Up, on your feet. Come on.”

Jaskier just keeps frowning at him, and in the end Geralt has no choice but to lift the bard to his feet, then up and over his shoulder. He’s lighter than he should be, presumably from his time on the road without Geralt coupled with having been locked up with nothing to eat or drink. Geralt’s stomach twists uncomfortably.

“Always saving me,” Jaskier mumbles as they exit the cellar. Mercifully there are no guards - apparently there were even fewer than he expected, as he evidently knocked all of them out on his way in - and Lord Pankratz clearly doesn’t care enough to even try to stop them from leaving. Geralt doesn’t know why he’s surprised.

He lifts Jaskier onto Roach and climbs up behind him, wrapping one arm around the bard’s waist. He’ll never get over the relief that comes with having the bard at his side, nor will he ever admit it. But he is relieved - relieved that once again, Jaskier has avoided a painful demise.

One day their luck will run out. But today is not that day and Geralt can’t help but smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
